Sunderland Seduction
"Factory foreman Angela runs a tight ship in Sunderland. When new worker Marcus questions her authority, she shows him after hours exactly who's in charge."
Marcus had worked factories from Birmingham to Glasgow, but he'd never had a foreman like Angela Williams.
Guyanese-British, forty-five, built like a force of nature. Thick arms that could lift boxes most men struggled with, hips that could barely fit through the machinery aisles, and a voice that could be heard over any industrial noise.
"You're doing it wrong," she told him his first day. "Watch and learn."
He watched. He learned. And he tried not to stare at the way her company polo stretched across her chest.
Two months in, and Marcus thought he knew better.
"This way's more efficient," he argued, showing her his modified technique.
Her eyes narrowed. "My floor, my methods."
"But if you'd just look—"
"After shift. My office. We're going to have a conversation about authority."
Her tone brooked no argument. Marcus spent the rest of the day wondering if he was about to be fired.
The factory was empty at 6 PM. Angela's office was small, cramped, filled with schedules and safety posters.
"Close the door."
He did.
"Sit."
He sat.
She walked around her desk, perching on the edge in front of him. This close, he could see the sheen of sweat on her skin from the day's work, smell her no-nonsense soap.
"You think you know better than me?"
"I was just suggesting—"
"I've been doing this job for fifteen years. Built this floor from nothing. And some new boy thinks he can walk in and improve things?"
"I meant no disrespect."
"Didn't you?" She leaned forward. "Or did you like challenging me? Liked watching me get worked up?"
His silence was answer enough.
"I've seen how you look at me, Marcus. Everyone does. Thick Black foreman, must be easy to push around." Her hand gripped his chin. "Nobody pushes me around. Not on my floor, not anywhere."
"I never thought—"
"Shut up." Her mouth covered his, rough and demanding.
She pulled back, watching his reaction.
"Still think you know better?"
"No ma'am."
"Good answer." She started unbuttoning her polo. "Now let me show you how things work when I'm in charge."
Her body was powerful—muscular and thick, built by years of physical labor. She pushed him back in the chair and straddled him, taking complete control.
"You do what I say, when I say it. Understood?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Then make yourself useful."
She rode him in her office chair until it nearly broke. Her strong thighs gripped him, her powerful body moved with machine-like precision. She came with a growl, not a moan.
"Not bad. Again."
She pushed him onto her desk, scattering papers. Climbed on top. Rode him until he was begging.
"Please, Angela—"
"That's Foreman Williams." But she smiled. "Fine. You've earned it."
She squeezed him tight as he finished, milking every drop.
Afterward, she straightened her clothes like nothing had happened.
"Same time next week. If you're good."
"And on the floor?"
"On the floor, you do what you're told. No more suggestions."
"Yes, Foreman Williams."
"Good boy." She unlocked her office door. "Now get out. I have paperwork."
Marcus left with a new appreciation for authority. And every time Angela barked an order at him on the factory floor, he felt a very specific anticipation for their weekly "meetings."
Some lessons, he learned, were best taught in private.